Lena & Lacroix
by DrkVrtx
Summary: One shot, one kill; that's the Widowmaker's motto. Except when Tracer says otherwise.
1. Chapter 1

The perfect assassin? More like the perfect ass.

There's a catsuit, and then there's whatever the hell this woman's wearing. If she's wearing anything at all, mind. Tracer likes to think it might just be elaborate body paint. She figures the suit's designed more for Talon's pleasure than the Widowmaker's comfort. Either way with the view she's got, the time-jumping lass ain't complaining. You'd have to be a right dolt not to appreciate those fine, round cheeks. They're wrapped up in fabric so tautly stretched Tracer spies certain intimate details with ease. A lopsided grin finds her lips as she kicks her legs, hanging over the edge of the billboard she's parked her own butt on top of.

Below her, Lacroix - that's the woman's real name - lies flat on her stomach, legs a little more than a shoulder width apart as she peers through the scope of her rifle. The roof of one of the tallest buildings for ages makes for somethin' of a decent vantage point. Pretty standard affair, really. Lacroix's only gone and propped herself up in prime position to find her target. Can see for days with that HUD pulled over her eyes, too. It'd take a mighty strange thing to distract her now, that's why Tracer can blink into being behind her and Lacroix's none the wiser.

Tracer of course, all eager like, mistimes the jump by a fraction and winds up flapping her arms like a wild goose. Lacroix doesn't hear the sole of a boot scraping against the billboard's edge, nor an audible sigh of relief. Probably since she's busy making last second, mission critical calculations that'll send a bullet tearing through a poor man's noggin. See, Lacroix doesn't miss. Takes aim, one slow squeeze of the trigger, and _blam! _Has the coppers in a tizzy 'cause all they have after is a dead body and nothing to show for the killer. All in a day's work, eh? Except today there are two possible futures, and Tracer's seen 'em both.

In the one she chooses, the Widowmaker never takes the shot.

* * *

><p><strong>Messing around with a shorter writing form. Let's see how things turn out.<br>**


	2. Chapter 2

She has been lying in wait for over an hour - sixty seven minutes and thirteen seconds, to be exact. Lacroix does not lack for patience; she is its master. A hand moves up to activate the metal halo crowning her head. She returns a stabilising grip to the rifle as a visor slides into place over her eyes. In 4.76 seconds, military-grade software constructs a detailed overlay that frames the environment up to two kilometres out from her current position. Lacroix tilts her head and through a red-tinted scope, sights the target.

Gunther Siegel, private benefactor of one Dr. Harold Winston.

Lacroix's toneless voice retains traces of a honeyed French accent when she speaks. "Magnify, times five."

An office grows before her eyes, a balding, sharply dressed man sitting before a large desk with his back turned to the city. He appears to be looking down, not at the papers spread in front of him, but something else.

"Magnify, times six."

Lacroix does not react to what she sees. She only considers whether the success of the mission outweighs the consequences of the unforeseen complication. It does.

"Activate Guidance System."

_Guidance System Online_

"Calculate distance."

_1,804yd 1.3853ft to target_

"Correct for elevation."

_Calculating vectors..._

A scarlet reticule inches upwards away from the back of the Gunther Siegel's bowed head.

_Process complete_

Lacroix feels her long tail of violet hair flutter against her left shoulder.

"Compensate for bullet drop. Adjust for slight westerly crosswind."

The reticule shifts once more.

_Process complete_

"Run test simulation."

_Locking in current configuration...Running test...Kill confirmed _

Lacroix does not react; of course it is. She has already made the necessary calculations herself. She is not an amateur. She is more than simply a professional. Arrogance, however, is a flaw. Talon makes no room for mistakes. The Widowmaker prepares to live up to her name. A wealthy, adulterous husband will not be missed by his wife. Lacroix slips her finger onto the rifle's trigger and -

"Hey, pet, wotcha' lookin' at?"

She blinks, and turns her eyes to find none other than Tracer resting her head comfortably on her buttocks. The two women stare at each other. Lacroix forgets to count the seconds. Then she remembers the mission.

Gunther Siegel.

She spins around, her eye aligning with the rifle scope. Tracer's weight disappears as Lacroix pulls the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

Tracer's not the serious type, likes to find a bit of fun in everything. Life ain't worth the livin' otherwise. So when the idea occurs to her as she looks down at the prone would-be assassin, Tracer's grinning all Cheshire-like.

It's a full second after blinking down and making a pillow of the Widowmaker's bum that the woman realises she's there. That's a long time. Tracer has a right laugh at Lacroix's face when she turns and sees her, makes a show of snugglin' betwixt her buttocks. Ha! That a blush creeping up on her cheeks? The Frenchwoman doesn't give her time enough to tell. Spins round like her head's on a swivel and sticks an eye on her guy. 'Course Tracer knows who she's out to off today: Gunther Siegel, prominent financial backer of Winston's research into chronal acceleration.

That's a tidbit Lacroix ought not to know. Tracer ain't surprised she does.

The choice of target has her a bit miffed though. Stopping Mr. Siegel's brains being splattered across his desk is Tracer practically protecting an investment! After all, only thing keeping her pinned in this reality is Winston's tech strapped to her chest.

Trust Lacroix to make it personal.

She's there and then she's not, and Lacroix jerks backwards as a boot swings out of nowhere and leathers her rifle halfway across the rooftop. Her eyes immediately dart after it as her visor snaps open - too late though 'cause Tracer's already there waiting as the yet-to-be-fired weapon skitters into reach of her eager mitts.

"Righ'," she says, turning it over in her hands, "how'd you do this again…? Aha!" Tracer soon finds the switch and converts the sniper rifle into a fully automatic machine gun. Her grin spreads wide as she aims from the hip. "Stick 'em up, pet!"

Obviously, Lacroix doesn't quite get the concept. Hands go up, sure, enough to fling out a length of wire that snaps through the air and wraps around Tracer's prize. Her elation is short lived as the gun gets yanked straight out of her hands. Two seconds later Lacroix is standing tall with the dangerous end pointing right at her. Her face is doing that funny thing where it pinches like she wants to be annoyed, except the woman doesn't let herself feel.

"You, again."

Tracer smiles nervously. "Bollocks."


	4. Chapter 4

Lena Oxton, 26, otherwise known as Tracer. An alias taken up and retained beyond her stint as an Overwatch agent. To Lacroix, the name has no meaning until she crosses paths with the woman again, and again. Precisely none of their encounters are of her own making. The British woman simply never fails to trace her footsteps.

"Hey," Tracer says, hands raised in an offering of peace, "maybe we can hash this one out, yeah?"

"No," Lacroix replies.

Her hands rise silently, bracing the gun against her shoulder. Tracer pleas that she wait; Lacroix curls her finger around the trigger and fires. She misses. The fact does not surprise her. Tracer is gone, vanished. Motes of blue light linger in the spot where she stood. Lacroix whirls through 180 degrees at the sound of scuffing boot heels. Her finger hits the trigger and Tracer blinks out of existence.

"Missed me, pet!" the woman calls out.

Lacroix's face pinches as fading laughter lingers in the air. "Don't call me that."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist!" Tracer says, flipping backwards over a volley of fire. She disappears before landing. Lacroix starts as a finger suddenly prods into her backside. "You even got knickers on under this, pet?"

Lacroix thrusts a raised heel into the woman's face. Her own pinches harder as Tracer vanishes once again. "I am not your pet."

"You're someone's, luv'!"

She is not angry, merely irritated - if even that. Impatient. No, what she is, Lacroix tells herself, is concerned only about the success of the mission. Talon will accept no more failures of her. She has returned to him twice now with clean hands. All because of Tracer. But the woman does not matter, only the mission. Only the target. Lacroix will not fail; she will take her shot.

Tracer dances through volleys of suppressing fire. Dances. Lacroix can't hit her. She isn't trying to. She walks forward whilst pressing the woman further back. She's moving into position. The visor snaps closed over her eyes and the HUD begins to recalibrate. Meanwhile, Tracer is laughing, leaping, taking pleasure, so it seems, in goading her with that moniker and all its supposed implications. It's not important; she is not important. Only the mission. Lacroix lays down a burst of gunfire as she reaches for the switch. Tracer blinks out of the bullets' path. Lacroix is already turning to point her sniper rifle at Gunther Siegel's office window. She tilts her head, aligning her eye with the scope.

And that's when Tracer reappears, sailing through the air with a leg extended.

"Hiyah!"


	5. Chapter 5

Tracer's not too sure where the momentum comes from, but she sure does feel it when Lacroix's shoulder cracks under her boot and the Frenchwoman goes flying. Doesn't help that she goes sailing after her, right off the flippin' roof.

It's a long way to fall and Tracer's flailing about in the air. Lacroix's rifle is a grey pinprick tumbling to the ground far below, and the woman herself looks barely conscious. Well, Tracer can't have that now, can she? Didn't come out 'ere to kill the poor lass. She moves like a blur, wrapping her arms 'round the woman's waist, and the sudden shift in directional momentum throws them both through the glass of an office several stories down.

Tracer barely remembers the moment of entry. Head's gone all mushy like and her goggles are cracked. She pulls 'em off and lets it rest on top of her hair. Then she realises her arms are empty and Lacroix's gone. Casts an eye about to find her and winces when her harness starts whining. Not a pleasant sound, that. She looks down while pushing herself up and sees the bright blue light flicker. Tinkling glass catches her ear and Tracer sees Lacroix rising from behind an upturned desk. She grins.

"You alright, pet?"

The woman doesn't seem too pleased. Which is something. Tracer thinks Lacroix is almost halfway to a proper miffed look as she finds her feet. "Soz' about that," she says, pointing at Lacroix's limp left arm, "and your gun. Gonna be a righ' pain to find that again."

Her visor busted, the woman's eyes visibly narrow. "I've had enough of you."

Wearing a crooked, cocky smile, Tracer's about to reply, but then Lacroix's right hand moves to her thigh and she pulls out one mean looking combat knife. And to top it all off, in the same moment, the flickering light of her chronal accelerator winks out entirely. Tracer looks down, then back up. Her eyes are wide.

"Oh, bloody hell."

Lacroix's on top of her in three strides. Slashes across Tracer's massive arm guards when she brings them up in front of her. The knife hits like it weighs a ton and scrapes down her armoured wrists. Tracer's never been trained in close quarters combat, hasn't needed to when she can be wherever she wants whenever she wants. But that luxury's not to hand right now. She's on Lacroix's turf and the woman doesn't play around. And then there's a moment of distraction - so brief, a cry of 'aha!' as Tracer's harness flares back to life, its neon-blue core whirring with restored power.

And that's precisely when Lacroix gets her.


	6. Chapter 6

It's a dark night, a chill one. Lacroix stands beside the window and watches the snow fall. Pushed ajar, a flake or two happens to find its way into the gap, settling on her cheek whereupon it leaves a trail of melt-water on her skin. The woman barely feels it; she is too cold. Part of her yearns to be warm again.

Three years have passed since that day. She remembers it well. It's always there, sleeping or awake, and unlike Talon she can't escape it. But even then his shadow continues to haunt her, and so does the ghost. Lacroix will never forget the ghost.

* * *

><p>Both women look down at it, and then they look up at each other. Lacroix is intrigued. All humour has left the young woman's face, her laughter, smirks, grins; gone. There is no light in her large brown eyes, nor a cocky quirk to her pale lips. Instead, for the briefest moment, Tracer - Lena - is afraid. Lacroix blinks and almost misses it, because afterwards, the woman is smiling.<p>

"Oops. Look's like you got me."

Tracer's harness scrapes down the wall as her legs give way. Her hand wrapped stiffly around the hilt of the knife, Lacroix follows her down to the floor. The blade sank right to the hilt, devoured by the core of a once functional chronal accelerator. But now it's flickering, whining, and even as Lacroix watches the entire harness begins to rattle around Tracer's body.

"Bugger," the woman sighs, "you really did a number on it."

Lacroix is about to demand an explanation, but then the chronal accelerator simply comes apart right before her eyes.

The core folds in on itself with a terrible, wounded groan and she snatches her hand away from the combat knife. Tracer shudders as her harness is eaten away, visibly disintegrating into neon-tinted ash. In moments she's free of it, naked, for all intents and purposes. Exposed. Then, barely a second later, _she_ begins to flicker. Lacroix jerks backwards, gaze flitting over the woman. Tracer grins as her body momentarily fades away once more. Something, however, is not right about the curve of her mouth.

"Didn't you know?" she asks. "Can't control it without the harness."

Except when she speaks, Tracer is in two places at once, and her voice is an echo of an echo. And when she lifts a hand to her head, the woman flickers simultaneously between three different points in the office.

"Ow," she groans, "gives me a crackin' headache, too."

Lacroix moves, winding her fingers into Tracer's thick bomber jacket. "You sabotaged my mission. Talon will kill me."

"Bollocks," the woman wheezes. "Too valuable."

Lacroix shakes her. "He will punish me. He will _torture_ _me._"

"Then don't go back, ya' daft bird!"

She is about to reply when Tracer sharply inhales. Her eyes bulge and her chest thrusts out and Lacroix glimpses pain cross her face before she abruptly vanishes.

It takes her a while to reappear, lying curled up on her side in the middle of the room. She's becoming more intangible by the second, melting away. Lacroix pounces on her in a heartbeat. Tracer's laboured moan is choked away by a hand around her throat. Lacroix leans over her as the young woman splutters, eyes lethal and narrow. "Why?" she demands. "Why are you always chasing me?"

"Does it mat -"

"I don't kn -"

"Orders are orders -"

Tracer takes a deep breath and tries to hold together her quickly fading form. She offers Lacroix her last grin. She sees the melancholy weight in her eyes.

"Guess I'm just stuck on you, pet."

Even when she disappears altogether, crumbling into motes of light with a quiet gasp, Lacroix does not quite understand. She remains puzzled by the young woman's words, at least until she hears something beeping at an even, consistent pace. Lacroix casts her gaze carefully around the room before realising where exactly the sound is coming from. Eyes flare wide. Her hand flashes around, snatches Tracer's parting gift off of her backside and tosses it out the shattered window.

As the heat of the plasma bomb's explosion washes over her, Lacroix is certain that she hears laughter.


End file.
